ran up to the store,” Charlotte said.
Joan lifted her head. A look flashed between her and Rosemary. Or did Charlotte just imagine it? They were still too young, surely, to understand.
“What are the rules of the game, Joan?” Charlotte said.
“They’re very complicated,” Rosemary said. “Aren’t they, Joan?”
“Yes,” Joan said.
“Mommy?” Rosemary said. “Is Mrs. Kennedy very, very sad because the president died?”
“I would think so, yes,” Charlotte said.
“What will she do now?”
“What will she do? I’m not sure. Do you mean—”
“Who will she live with?” Rosemary said. “Who will take care of her?”
The question surprised Charlotte. “Why, I imagine that she’ll take care of herself.”
Rosemary looked doubtful. Another look flashed between her and Joan. “Mommy?” Rosemary said.
“One more question,” Charlotte said. “And then I have to get the clothes off the line before it’s dark.”
“You’d be very, very sad if Daddy died,” Rosemary said, “wouldn’t you?”
“Daddy’s not going to die. I promise.”
“But you’d be very, very sad.”
“Of course I would,” Charlotte said, and she meant it. Dooley wasn’t a bad person—far from it. He loved Charlotte and loved the girls, and he’d never once lifted a hand to any of them in anger. And the drinking … Deep down, she knew, he genuinely wanted to quit. One day, perhaps, he’d manage to do it.
But suppose he did quit drinking. What then? Charlotte’s life would be easier, certainly, but would it be happier? The seconds and minutes and hours would continue to tick past. The weeks, the months, the years. The futures she might have had, the women she might have become, those ghosts would grow fainter and fainter in the distance until they disappeared altogether. If Charlotte was lucky, she’d forget that they’d ever haunted her.
And the girls. It pained Charlotte that one day Rosemary and Joan might ask the same questions of themselves: What will we do? Who will take care of us?
Rosemary had turned back to her books, Joan to her squares of construction paper. Charlotte lingered in the doorway. She thought about her initial reaction to the assassination, how permanently fixed in her life the news had made her feel. But maybe that idea needed amendment. No, her world would never change—not unless she did something to change it.
The tornado might have blown Dorothy from Kansas to Oz, but Dorothy was the one who’d had to open the front door of the farmhouse and step outside.
Charlotte’s fingers touched the money in the pocket of her apron. Three hundred dollars. She had perhaps twice as much in the girls’ college savings account, money that Dooley didn’t know about and couldn’t squander.
Nine hundred dollars. It wasn’t nearly enough. But Charlotte didn’t let herself stop and think.
“Girls,” she said. “Go pack your suitcases.”
“Are we going somewhere?” Rosemary said, excited. “When are we leaving?”
Every now and then, Charlotte dreamed that she could fly. She’d be skipping to school, a child again, and then suddenly she’d find herself gliding weightlessly over cars, over trees, over entire houses. The secret was to not think about what was happening to you, what you were doing. Pretend it was just an ordinary day or the spell would be broken and down you’d come crashing.
“Mommy,” Rosemary said, “when are we leaving?”
“Now. In five minutes.”
“Is Daddy coming?” Joan said.
“No. It’s just us girls.”
“What about Lucky?” Rosemary said.
The dog. Oh, good Lord. But Charlotte couldn’t just leave the poor thing here. Dooley might forget to feed him or to give him his medicine. He might forget that the dog even existed.
“Lucky can come with us,” Charlotte said. “Now, hurry, go pack your suitcases.”
“Can I bring one doll or two dolls?” Rosemary said.
“One.”
“Are two small dolls the same as one big doll?”
“No.”
“But Joan can bring one doll, too. And we can each bring one book.”
“Yes. Now, go.”
Rosemary bounded away. Joan considered Charlotte solemnly.
“Where are we going, Mommy?” Joan said.
Charlotte reached out to smooth the golden hair that never needed it. “Let’s find out.”
Guidry’s Friday-night dinner with Al LaBruzzo dragged on. Guidry was his usual sparkling self, thank you very much, but it took some effort. He couldn’t chase the idea from his head that maybe, just maybe, Seraphine and Carlos planned to kill him.
No, don’t be ridiculous.
Yes, the math made sense. Guidry knew about the getaway Eldorado and its connection to the assassination. That made him a risk.
But he was one of Carlos’s most trusted associates, Seraphine’s friend and confidant. He’d proved his loyalty time and time again. Just count the times! Al LaBruzzo didn’t have enough fingers.
And look at it, too, from a more practical perspective. Guidry did important work for the organization. He opened doors through which flowed cash and influence. Carlos—a penny-pincher, so tight he squeaked when he walked—wouldn’t throw away as valuable an asset as Guidry. Waste not, want not, Carlos always said.
After dinner Guidry took a cab up Canal to the Orpheum and slipped into the middle of the picture, a comedy western with John Wayne and Maureen O’Hara horsing around on a ranch. The theater was almost empty.
Get rid of the Eldorado.
And then get rid of the man who got rid of the Eldorado. Get rid of the man who knows about Dallas.
The projector clattered. Cigarette smoke rose and bloomed in the beam of light from the booth. Three scattered couples in the theater, plus two other solo acts like Guidry. No one had come in since he’d plopped down. He was pretty sure no one had followed his cab up Canal.
Guidry was letting his imagination get the
